She longed to know the truth, for she had promised him her friendship for her father’s sake; she had asked him to help her to trace her father’s murderer. Then, too, she felt inclined to like him. The fascination she had felt for the portrait extended itself to the man. “But what was it doing there in that dreadful house?” she asked herself shudderingly, “that house of horror and mystery?” And again that night of horror rushed over her mind--that night of horror, and the woman’s face at the window. She shivered and closed her eyes. She opened them again and looked at Mrs. Dunn, with her smiling face uplifted to her lover’s gaze. Her very ordinary face was looking its best now; and her peculiar, restless eyes, the only striking feature she had, gleamed with the fires of love. And certainly those glittering dark eyes looking into hers spoke devotion. Italy gasped and sighed. Could that smiling woman’s face be the same that she had seen convulsed with anguish and horror, those white hands toying idly now with her many rings be the same that were tossed up so desperately into the night and the gloom? Oh, it was like some terrible dream! “And what was she doing there, watching Craig Severn? Why did she kill him? Was it for my sake, or does she know even that that frantic girl was I? I do not believe that she does,” she decided. Italy had read the paragraphs in the papers relating to Craig Severn’s mysterious death; she wondered, like every one else, how the body had come to be in the river. For all of that night was blank to her from the moment when she had fallen senseless in a pool of Craig Severn’s spurting life-blood. She had read about the lovely young widow who, believing her husband true to her and bitterly lamenting his death, had offered, out of her small fortune, a reward for the apprehension of his murderer. “How can men be such fiends as that man was while his wife believed him so true and fond?” she thought, with a shudder; and just then a voice sounded in her ear--a very low and gentle voice. “You look deathly pale and ill, child; you ought to lie down. Permit me to assist you to your room.” She was glad of the offer, and quickly put her small hand on the offered arm, going out with a small bend of the head to the others, and followed by a glance of jealous hate from Alys Audenreid. Francis Murray bent his tall head gently to his trembling companion. “I did not mean to deceive you,” he said gently, “but--before I take you to your room--may I speak to you a few minutes in the library?” She bowed in silent surprise. What was it now? Was he going to scold her for something? Opening the door, he led her to a luxurious sofa. “Rest there while I talk to you,” he said kindly, and the tired head dropped wearily on the silken pillow. “Emmett has told me everything,” he said. “I am sorry you could not make him happy as he wished. He is good and true. You need not believe what Mrs. Dunn said on the yacht.”